“The sea yields its harvests without sowing or planting,” and seaside scenery is exquisite if you have come upon it where it is unsophisticated. Happily it is in such sequestered “Edens of the western wave” that the most desirable pebbles are met with. I have gathered rare specimens where the dor-hawk was wheeling overhead, and saucy sea-gulls screeching almost in my face; while a cunning crow would watch from a projecting ledge of rock to see whether I was about to capture, and afterwards throw away, anything which might serve him for a luncheon.
The terraces of Margate and Ramsgate are invaluable to the tired artizans of London seeking their well-earned recreation; but no poet could venture to affirm of them what Scott said of “Brignall banks,” that they are “wild and fair.” But quit these populous thoroughfares, and get away to pearly Beachey Head, or roam the lone strands of Yorkshire or Devon, or go and lose yourself among shadowy nooks and gleaming bays in the sweetest of all islands, and you will possess the genuine colour and scent, and music and mystery of the sea, as the Creator has framed and blended that wondrous element.
You need not look for pebbles unless you like; sometimes it were better not. But saunter down to the water’s crinkled edge, and inhale that indescribable odour from old rock, slippery now with dulse and ribbon-weed—Piesse and Lubin distil nothing to equal it—and con the page in Nature’s volume which lies open before you; it will never give you a head-ache, nor a heart-ache either.
Here, after presently stripping to the elbow, you may surprise a hermit-crab, or catch the spotted “goby” in his dark saline pool, but please let him go again; you ought to give him his freedom, if only out of gratitude; for all this time your own tired body is being braced and refreshed, and your mind, yesterday jaded and careworn, is winning back its elasticity under a sense of blessed repose.
I will now mention some peculiarities in the nature of our beaches, which I have noted from time to time in the book of my experience.
A BEACH is supposed to be a permanent accumulation of pebbles and small shingle, due to such cliffs or banks as are near at hand. And this general definition would be so far scientifically correct, if nature were stagnant like the surface of a deserted mill-pond. But, as Nature is always at work, always shifting the scenes, the above definition, although it sounds like a truism, does not hold good in either of its clauses. The accumulation which we look upon is not permanent, nor is it always due to a neighbouring source. Sometimes the collection of stones which we find heaped up in an immemorial bay has been washed round—much of it, perchance, recently—from a distant quarter. And this might be taking place under our very eyes, and we not know it, just as we do not see the grass grow. Except in very calm weather, beaches are continually travelling, and they travel rapidly along certain lines of coast, until they arrive at a terminal point or headland. To get round this latter takes time, but they do get round it at last, with the help of strong gales prevailing in one direction, and under the rushing tides of an equinox. Now if we suppose a few acres of shingle to be once fairly carried past such a promontory, and discharged into the curve of an elliptical bay, they will be locked in, and may, perhaps, never get out again.
I have myself no doubt that Sandown Beach is fed and replenished in this manner: and the bay being deeply indented with the points of Culver and Dunnose, prominent at opposite extremities, egress is difficult. Yet most persons might naturally suppose that whatever they find on the beach here is due to its overhanging cliffs.
Some of the best pebbles travel fast, and are, in fact, migratory, till they reach such a “nidus” as I have described. This is owing to the rounded form which fossils usually assume. Angular lumps rather remain stationary. Jasper I suppose makes few excursions: while the agates and oval choanites are continually on the move, and may have visited a dozen different localities before they are picked up. I have hunted a bit of yellow agate in this way for above a mile in the course of a few weeks, dropping it again on purpose, and never finding it in the same place.
Beside the above real motion of a beach, there is an apparent total change for a time which is by no means uncommon in exposed situations.
This is, when an inshore gale drifts the sand and conceals for a day or two the entire mass of shingle. It is a provoking circumstance when it occurs, but it seldom lasts long in its effects. The sudden re-appearance of half a mile of solid beach, as if by magic, on a change of the wind, has sometimes surprised me in spite of past experience.